Spoken Words: Poems by Infinite the Poet

My poetry derives from poverty, drugs guns, cold bodies and teary eyes. As a youngen my dreams got side tracked when my father got sent back. I wanted to be in the military, I would’ve enlisted after high school and been a soldier like many other men in my family. I knew that’ll get me out the hood, combat boots, camo and a dog chain bearing my name, I would’ve looked good. Life became fubar, fucked up beyond all repair, I wound up in the concrete trenches, day and night you saw me out there. Still young and naive I became an armed force like the army, navy, air force and marines, had my deuce power and understanding build cipher amongst other protection while chasing the almighty dollar. I missed the opportunity to be a kid that grew to become a man that got married on a base and raised military brats because I was trapped making profit off cooked coke packs. It was instant rebellion, I wanted to feed my mother and brothers, At that time I wasn’t trying to build a business or reach a million, I just wanted to maintain the lifestyle we lived when pops was liv’n. We wasn’t rich but we weren’t poor either, life took a bad turn by us losing the breadwinner. Things got ugly with no one to guide me, so I moved in the direction of blood money. Soon after I understood that terminology. Slugs pricked skin and mangled anatomy… hood phlebotomy. Not all currency had red stains because blood didn’t reach pockets when shot in the brain, so it remained dirty green in a murderous game, Lost most of my team for turning pure coke into crack cocaine.

My teammates and I lived a harsh life, our bodies are riddle with bullet holes, have razor keloids and wounds from knives. They’re bad predicament reminders, scars of attempted murder, some tatted over, I left mine in plain view because when I look at them they’re motivation to go harder every sight fuels my fire. Why couldn’t everyone have trap graff on their epidermis instead of a lot of men being placed under the surface or in a fiery furnace?

Sand box homies dropped chasing the almighty dollar, it was the same fate for the generation after, there’s war scars on sons and fathers, big brothers buried little brothers and vice versa, the root of all evil produced cloak less reapers, if he dies… He dies, the streets will get bloody for come up paper. Life has no worth to those scheming to get rich off others gain, if you’re the middle man you get removed by slug rain

The things we did had some men getting locked up while anxiously awaiting a child, during those bids their kids had a kid, they still have time so son and grandkids won’t see grandpa, who was a young hustler, on the outside for a long while. The things we did and the reactions stole my smile. We wanted to end poverty and we did, since we reached that type of success we figured why not take it further, organize to monopolize in the state of empires, it wasn’t greed, it was wishful thinking that led to mass murder.

I’ll give it to ya how ever you want it, how ever you need it like soul 2 soul, I can go hard like the finished process of manufacturing or I can let pain talk from all the murdering, either way I won’t be glamorizing, educating is my goal. See I’m an OG, Castle Hill is my stomping grounds, that’s where I studied and learnt the ropes of Coke, dope and guns, I wasn’t the only student, there was many pupils just like me in the slums, the forefathers were hard knock professors, we took notes of lingo, actions and mannerisms, we grew up and became clones, a different generation of twins following tradition of hells comesutra leaving us in awkward positions like rigor mortus set in.

Jail because of directs or observation, homelessness after raids and evictions, mourners because sand box homies never came out of critical condition, their condition couldn’t of been any worse, we did those final trap laps following a hearse. What we studied was mistakes before they happened, we only saw the action without the reaction so we got stuck doing the math to correct them, for many it’s to late, they’re considered the late, teenagers meeting early fate walked thru the pearly gates… This is what gave birth to the “8” infinite the poet, the lemniscate.

Every time I write I relive painful memories, my mind rewinds time to the point where meals were our only worries, we had each other, so what we lived in poverty. We got older and that hunger is what took most of my homies, hurt had me screaming out God plz take me… I had yet to learn my purpose, had to live thru hell to be able to spread wisdom on its surface, I burn in super nova because of the life of la costra nostra and losing a lot of good-fellas, kitchen chemistry, carry’n gats, stashn packs to stack racks broke hearts of many mothers. I share scars so others don’t have to get shot, stabbed or locked to feel my pain.

I’m a seed from her flower, she raised me alone twelve years after when the reaper came in the form of cancer and took my father, luckily I was able to see him when I looked at my big brother, it was a cold world thereafter. My smile erased from my face watching mom struggle to put food on the table and keep our rented place. It was hard but she did it. I was told by my king to take care of his queen, that phrase played over and over, I had to help my mother, Perdon madre Mia, I had to do what dad said, Sid was your protector, all you had to do was worry about GB, I was going out to get this bread.

I saw it all before, I knew the risk and ropes, I ran on hope to help moms cope, mom didn’t care for that type of assistance, I was tired of seeing generations of family living poorly so I started a resistance to end poverty, no matter what I did mom never abandoned me, I got locked up, she came to visit, she cried, I told her to stop it, she said you’re only fifteen, I said mom they know I’m seven thirty plus I’m brolic as soon as I get out its back to profit.

She’s the only one that could grab my gun when I was heated so I didn’t squeeze it, she would spaz telln me I’m just like my father, boy the life you’re living is dangerous, I heard the I told you so’s while she stood by my hospital bed watching the blood gush, her lips was moving fast but in shock because of the shots everything came at me slow mo as if I was on angel dust, Mommy don’t worry that doc said its a fifty fifty, I’m going to stay awake, there’s not going to be a wake, after they fix my broken bones and operate Ill just need some time to recuperate, all she could do was wait.

When I got home mom was happy you should’ve seen her smile gleam, it was a beautiful scene till the next day when I went out with a cane and cast to join the team and get to this cream, the pain was numb due to Tylenol with codein. Mom is watching boys she saw on a daily basis with her son get murdered, albertito look at all your friends bendito, you guys aren’t giving yourselves chances to grow, it went in through one ear and out the other, it was all about money even after murder.

I thought I was helping but I was really hurting her, it couldn’t of been clearer watching narcs cuff her after a raid to take her, my big bro and my moms new man to rikers, imagine that picture, the game made my mother and many others suffer, I was sucked in like the rocks and heroin in stems and needles during injection. The love of money had me blinded to reality, knowing what I know now and if there was any possible way for resuscitation, I would’ve brought dad back then my friends and I wouldn’t trade them for a billion billions, if I could turn back time I wouldn’t make my mother go to sleep wondering when she wakes up if she still had all her son’s.

Just one last time to see them. That’s my wish. If y’all know someone that can make this happen, point me in the direction. I mourn deeply. Every once in a while I get in my feelings and be like… damn so many. The tat on my back with the names of those that died kept expanding like St. Raymond’s cemetery. It started with my father, cancer from that liquor thirst, then murder of men that was with me on the block tryn to make the everyday flow feel like the first. Yes, I do have lots of memories and I have a vivid imagination, but I would love to see them with my two physicals like back then, instead of third eye visions. My dad would be the first I’ll run to, then I would literally go insane tryn to figure out who’ll be the next I run to. the line up is long, that, terrible, I’ll put my arm around him, he’ll put his arm around him, we’ll all hug each other like we did in tuff touch football huddles. They’ll be a feast with entire families and friends because I know they all would want to break bread with kin again. It’ll be an all out celebration, fun, laughter and joyful conversations. I’ll step back and soak it all in, I’ll be looking at stars, my angelic constellation. I’ll have a photographer to snap pits and short yids of my king and my sand box brothers to last me for the rest of my forever, when the last time to see them is over.

I be in the hood soaking in life to stay on top of my game, I don’t cook or cut but I’m still on top of the game, I travel block to block and still see cardboard murals and candles flickering pain. I could hear the sounds of echoing guns from distant slums, pa rum pa pum pum death drums, nothing changed, there’s older mothers consoling younger mothers who just lost a son because they already felt the mental trauma of losing one. Lil shorties are watching the big guys, look he lives around us but not like us I want to be just like I’m, so whatever he’s doing I’m gonna try. You’re an automatic icon if you don’t have to worry about puttn food on the table and keeping the lights on. Hunger is going to make peeps pursue what they visualize, they don’t understand that ninety nine percent of what they see is visual lies, twenty twenty can’t see through the facade so before they get a good look at the situation they’ll be in too deep like when we return to God. I’m hearing ayo mo I love the hustle, I’m always going to play… That’s because they haven’t been locked up tallying days, felt bullet wound aches on rainy days or lost enough homies to make you think horrible thoughts, like… how long does it take for a buried body to decay? I loved the thought of clutching big money I just hated the reactions to achieve that goal, after every death i shun brighter, there’s less PC to spread when the circle gets tighter, that didn’t make me happy, how could I be?, wasn’t hustln with strangers I was gettn it with a crime family, I went from poverty to sittn on a hundred grand, angry. I loved my brothers, I didn’t know the last time we sipped wine and broke bread would be our last supper, we was in this together, the more I got ahead the more I suffered.

It’s a man’s world. We grew up with dreams embedded in our souls. Us poverty stricken boys dreamt the same, build an empire by any means to end living in shame. We constructed the foundation, hope was erected while we was youngens. It was us… Man. Blood, sweat, tears, if it wasn’t for one of my peers (Edgar), I wouldn’t be here. Sunshine and rain was part of gains, we hunted and was hunted, man was wild game. It was warfare to end welfare, like knives… Slugs sliced the air to cut the throats of current heirs.

Man had the power, We abused it, all we wanted to do was get fat, so be it if the first was the last time we had to listen to obese music. to us hunger was a disease and money was therapeutic. Bullet holes added to my nine physical, it’s was a man that took me out of critical, when he did I went right back to where I left off to become block Royal, All black affairs were yearly affairs, numbers took over names, bulbs became natural light, the only perk for asthmatic New Yorkers that went down then upstate… Was inhaling better air.

Urban Genocide, local homicide, no white flags were raised, kill or be killed was how we was raised, I had an army they passed, recruited and trained another generation, when I speak of them, it’s also the past, men brewed the recipe for destruction, men sold it for food, clothing and shelter… Self gratification, men are the reasons why most of us poverty stricken children didn’t get to grow into a man and why we are at the highest level of extinction. None of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for that “girl”

We use to pick the abandoned car with the most windows as a wind breaker in the winter, we would be in there wishing… We wasn’t wishing for a heater, although that would’ve been nice, we wished one of our house keys could turn on those old ass plymouths, dusters and novas so we could drive around and look for customers instead of sittn on the benches with Jack Frost surrounding us, it was already a cold world.

Shelter wasn’t far away but we’ll rather get frost bitten rather than letting money get away. The longer we stayed, the more we moved… the more we moved, the more profit we’ll split, so we just sat in them abandoned cars or those wood benches on the block, cold as fuck, wiping away frozen snot.

We put that work in, Ralphy,(rip) Edgar(rip) crazy mike, Orlando(rip) my birth circa kin, the foundation. From rags to riches, to bullet holes, staples and stitches, to losing so many men that Life to me, is what the definition of a bitch is. When it comes to fallen soldiers…I’ve seen men cry, I know men that prayed for death, because they know they’ll miss their homie so bad that they’ll rather die, Ive seen some that stood stone faced understanding the reality, wasn’t in shock or in disbelief, so much anger built up inside that after burials, immediately it was plans to search and destroy soul thieves, ya know, an eye for an eye.

Me, I was soaking in urban poetry, all black attire, tears flowing down cheeks of mourners, the pitch of mothers screams that couldn’t get any higher, the we don’t die we multiply flowers, the glued eyes and lips look on a scholar from the school of hardknock that will never graduate to college, ya know boss money, but moved on to the pearly gates with the majority. Time wasn’t on our side tic toc, tic toc 911’s, another homicide

Then– I was always ready for war, herb intoxicated, military vest , fatigues, nine Millie sig sauer or my four four Every time I stepped out my front door, I’m ready for blood shed like the savages in darfur, I had to prevent myself from becoming a chalk traced body on the cold concrete floor, if slugs flew my way, some bodies soul will soar. im an initiate, the streets initiated me corrupted me, made me other than myself, a righteous mans seed. Blam blam blam blam blam for every me of those my body bled, a gurney was my bed, I’m dreaming of being rich while the doc is telling momma, next time you visit it will be a fifty fifty chance he’ll be dead.

Now– I’m elevated, I’m mentally strapped, my gun is a pen, it’s a super soaker, it’s caliber is power, I shoot this gift letting the world know the devil is a caniver as I civilize them eighty fivers. my experience and wits give atheist faith, my wisdom gives them religion, my change gives hope to men women and children, sun moon and stars, I heal mental scars, free those behind mental bars, I’m helping people see like an owls sees without spinning their head three sixty, that’s with 120 degrees of knowledge 120 of wisdom 120 of understanding. I’m an 7 * ( descendant. Soon the whole world will understand me.

Im influencing the youth, burying lies by revealing truth, I was at war with myself, I called a truce, I’m turning Toby’s back to kuntas, I’m replanting roots.

I’m a 5 star analyst, giving sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, knowledge to the dumb, and faith to the atheist when they get to know me on a first name basis.

infinite, an urban poetic analysis, when it comes to ghetto problems , drugs and guns, violence, street life pestilence, i recite solutions, not thesis, it’s first hand experienced prognosis.

I medicate. mental swine eradicate, through the spoken verses I dictate. I bleed poverty, oops my bad I mean that same word without the v and the r moved after the t, if I don’t release my cranium will start hemorrhaging,

I transform visions into manifestations, I lyrically let you see them. In the street game I’m a retired player but still a pinch pallbearer, I shoulder carry the team in caskets better, I write preludes of death with organized letters.

Right now I’m in my avatar state, super nova, fire exuding from my lemniscate, it’s an inferno, the flame’s internal. I implode, vibrations bounce off my voice box, move my jaw then out my mouth… words explode. I’m in a state of urgency, every state is going to be in a state of emergency when they get a load of me and feel the intense heat from the arson spitting artist from the Bronx projects.

My Bio

Albert Carrasco is not only a spoken word artist, but also a motivational speaker, using his words to uplift young people faced with the same difficult life choices as he was. Growing up in the Bronx, New York, Carrasco lost his father at age 12 and within four years he was arrested, shot twice and dealing drugs. He saw so many of his friends die off and he couldn’t stand the idea of his newborn son growing up into that life, so 12 years ago Carrasco turned his life around. He began to write poetry as a release, tapping into the harsh lyrical honesty that continues to permeate in his writings